


Don't Look At Me

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Greg's screwed up too, M/M, Maybe alcoholism too, Mycroft is kind of an arse, Mycroft is so broken, Oh and a lot of sex, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Probable drug use, and by kind of I mean he is, angst angst angst, but that changes, control issues?, more tags added later maybe, not friends but with added benefits, self destructive behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 16:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5212763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft operates under the assumption that his life is fine. Sure, he picks up strangers from bars and screws them senseless without learning their names. Sometimes he picks fights with his little brother under the guise of caring. Maybe he drinks a bit too much. But everyone has their problems, right? And he has his completely under control. Until he doesn't.</p>
<p>When Sherlock starts working under Detective Inspector Lestrade, Mycroft arranges his obligatory meeting. Just a quick vetting process and they can go on their merry way. But it doesn't go as he expects, because that wasn't the first time they had met - the first time was four days ago. In his bed. And Mycroft doesn't do repeats - does he?</p>
<p>Broken and shut off from the world, Mycroft and Lestrade eventually - sort of - fall into an arrangement. It's not talked about. Not official. Neither would admit to it. But neither would give it up, either. What happens when it starts to become more? What happens when two broken people decide to see if they can become whole?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic under my new name. A fresh, clean start.
> 
> ...so of course I pick a dark one with a lot of angst. :D If you would like to see previews, see what I'm up to, etc, you can find me [here](http://ryimo.tumblr.com).
> 
> This fic will receive updates every other week, since I'll be alternating it with a Sherstrade that will...be posted in about a week. If I'm behind, feel free to flog me. :D
> 
> Enjoy!

Mycroft stood there, his mobile in one hand and his umbrella over his other arm. Anthea was fetching the Detective Inspector, Sherlock’s new… friend. The first person to not force him bodily off of a crime scene, the first person to listen to his deductions and take them into account. It was possible, potentially, that Sherlock had finally found someone who would take him seriously.

As seriously as one could take Sherlock Holmes, anyway.

As a precaution, Mycroft had arranged this meeting. He had to know what this Detective Inspector thought, where his motivations lay. The Holmes family was old, with enemies too numerous to count. Mycroft had made even more as his work had lifted him into the upper reaches of the government. No one got that far without making a large number of enemies, and many knew the only way to get to him was through his family. It wouldn’t do well for his reputation if he stood by while his family was targeted.

He heard the car enter the deserted lot and slipped the mobile into his pocket. He had glanced over the DI’s file and its details, committed them to memory. It was necessary to know where to push, where to pull. Where his weak spots were, in the event Mycroft needed to press them. He was going to ascertain whether or not this DI was a threat to Sherlock, and if he was, he would eliminate him.

No questions asked.

He watched the car slide to a stop, watched Anthea get out and open the door. Let the man out. She didn’t go far away, stayed close. Not that Mycroft couldn’t take care of himself, but he wasn’t fond of getting his hands dirty. Anthea didn’t mind.

Mycroft watched the DI as he got out of the car, head turned away as he examined his surroundings. Studied him, watched every little movement. Salt-and-pepper hair, graying more at the temples. Dressed in his work clothes, so he was working late. The clothes fit him well, maybe too well. Tailored? If they were tailored, where would he get them? Illicit money was a possibility - he was a cop, after all. Many were not above getting their hands into things they didn’t belong in.

Then the DI lifted his head, looked at him, and Mycroft froze.

_All he could see was his face, at the bar, the flicker of hesitation before he said yes. Before Mycroft took him home, shoved him to the bed, and fucked him until the man had shuddered and came, Mycroft following soon after. Then he was gone, and Mycroft was alone. No baggage, no names, no noise. Just fucking._

Mycroft’s face did not change, did not shift, but inwardly he had chilled. Four days ago. It had been four days ago when he had taken this man home and fucked him senseless. That could be a problem.

The man - Lestrade, Mycroft’s memory filled in from the file - was studying him, eyes narrowed. Defensive. He remembered Mycroft as well, it seemed. At least Anthea said nothing.

“You are Detective Inspector Lestrade, are you not?” Mycroft asked, unmoving. He itched to move, to fidget, to something - but that was a sign of weakness and he could not have that. Instead he looked at Lestrade, affecting a demeanor of a complete lack of concern.

“Who’s asking?” Lestrade shifted, strengthening his position. Some sort of self-defense training, likely when he was younger, continued to adulthood. Interesting. Maybe that was why he was so muscled.

Mycroft inclined his head slightly. Names. He didn’t do names. But perhaps it was fair, since he now knew Lestrade’s. Then again, life wasn’t fair. “No one of consequence.”

Lestrade considered him for a moment. Tilted his head at a slight angle. He had a nice face, a rugged one. Objectively Mycroft could see that he was handsome. Of course he was, otherwise Mycroft would not have picked him. But none of that mattered to him, not really. He had a one and done rule - no repeats. “If you’re no one of consequence, then I’m leaving.” Lestrade managed to turn, take a step - before Anthea stood in front of him. She was shorter, but her face was razor sharp, and it was hopefully obvious that she could break him in two.

Her eyes flashed, and Lestrade’s eyebrows raised. Mycroft’s lips lifted at the corner, a thin, wry smile. “What is your business with Sherlock Holmes?” Mycroft kept his voice careless, unconcerned.

This caught Lestrade’s attention. He turned back, seemingly unconcerned by Anthea. That could be a fatal mistake. “Who are you?”

Mycroft’s fingers twitched, his lone display of anger, but he reined himself in. It was a matter of willpower, keeping the utter condescension from his voice. Why did they think they were smart, challenging him like that? Why did they not just answer the question? Pesky. “I am -”

“No one of consequence, I get it.” Lestrade seemed annoyed, but resigned. “I’m not going to talk about Sherlock.”

Mycroft shifted, pressed the tip of the umbrella to the ground, pulled out his mobile. “Even for a significant sum of money?” He looked at Lestrade now, cocking his head to the side. Anyone could be tempted with the right amount of money. No matter how much they had.

“No.” Lestrade drew himself up. Mycroft was mildly amused - was he actually offended at the offering, at the insinuation he was anything but honest? How interesting. A cop with morals.

“It is significantly more than your monthly salary,” Mycroft assured him. Laid the trap out for him to fall into. Lestrade was quiet for a few moments, and now his face was unreadable. Or maybe Mycroft didn’t bother to read his expression, not when he knew what was coming.

“Don’t care.” Lestrade seemed to make a decision, then he shrugged. “If you want information, you’re going to have to tell me who you are and why you want it.”

Mycroft considered him. He had guts, that much was true. Maybe not smarts, but guts. “Am I allowed to leave?” Lestrade asked. He didn’t sound hostile, he sounded almost - bored. Interesting. Maybe he was smarter than Mycroft had anticipated.

“Yes.” Mycroft inclined his head. This wasn’t their first conversation, nor their last. He would figure out what made the good Detective Inspector tick, no matter what it took.

Instead of continuing on the conversation, Mycroft watched as Lestrade turned around and left. He didn't even bother getting back in the car.

Anthea stood there, her eyes flickering between Lestrade and Mycroft. "Sir?" she asked, her voice as professional as it always was.

He shook his head, pulling out his own mobile. He nodded to the car and she opened the door, letting him in first before she slid in and closed the door. He would see if Sherlock was home. Maybe Sherlock would crack. He could treat it as routine, as his usual weekly drop by. It would annoy Sherlock, but Mycroft felt like he could stand to bother his brother.

"To 221B," he said with a wave of his hand to the driver.

Sherlock had taken residence up in a new two-bedroom place, with a landlady that was far more tolerant of his risky behavior than she should have been. Mycroft hadn't approved, but it was rare that he approved of anything. Something could always be done better.

Anthea followed him like a shadow, up the stairs and then stayed standing just outside of 221B. She didn't come inside – Sherlock was cranky when he saw Mycroft with the security. "Sherlock," Mycroft said, his voice warning even as he spoke loud enough to be heard through the door. That was a cue – clean up anything he had been doing, and preferably stop using drugs. He never did listen, but that didn't mean Mycroft didn't try.

"Go away," Sherlock said, his voice harsher than Mycroft had expected. Coming down then, was he. Or up to something more nefarious?

"Not quite, brother mine." He knew the endearment would rile him up, send him into a frenzy. Maybe he would even pick a fight with Mycroft. It had been a while since he had done his own fieldwork, but after the meeting with Lestrade, he was itching for something physical.

"What do you want?" The door opened, and Sherlock stood there. He was dressed in his usual addict clothes, a baggy shirt and pants. Not the elegant clothes he wore when he was clean. He most certainly had not seen the Detective Inspector that day – unless he had dared show up in that. Even at his worst Sherlock would not have been caught in such an ensemble.

It was curious, though, that he kept the door only open part way. He was hiding something, then. Something he did not want Mycroft to know about. Given their background, Mycroft could guess. Especially given Sherlock's propensity for drugs. "New flatmate not working out?" He kept his voice on the right side of mocking, supercilious at the same time he seemed to be concerned.

Sherlock's face darkened. He seemed ready to punch Mycroft, something that gladdened Mycroft's heart. If Sherlock punched him, then he could punch back. It was a long time since they had brawled, but he kept in practice.

"What do you want?" Sherlock snarled. He seemed even less pleased with Mycroft's visit than he had the last one.

"Just coming to check on your welfare, brother dear." Mycroft's tone was mocking now. He was picking a fight, and he knew it. He didn't care.

The door slammed in his face, and Mycroft enjoyed the adrenaline that flew through his veins. So Sherlock wanted to fight.

There was a touch on his shoulder, and Mycroft shifted before he realized it – Anthea's hand twisted behind her back. She looked at him, her eyes steely and said he knew that he could have only done that because she let him do that. Both of them knew it.

"What." He did not take kindly to interference.

"I do not think it is worth what you are doing," she said. "Sir." The way she used his title rankled him.

But maybe she was right. It would mean more barriers to mend with Sherlock later down the road, barriers he didn't have to create if he just kept his temper in check. He took a deep breath, felt the steely calm descend over him. No, Sherlock wasn't worth it. Nothing was worth it.

He strode away from the door, down towards the waiting car. "Take me home. Then we're going to the bar." It had been four days, and in theory he should have learned his lesson with the Detective Inspector. But Mycroft needed some sort of release, and the only way he was going to get it was if he went out and found somebody to take it out on.

Anthea nodded, regarded him silently for a moment, and the two of them left 221B.

-

First Mycroft had gone home, to change out of his suit. It was stylish, but not exactly the thing he wanted to pick up men from a bar in. They would think him a businessman. And he was much more than that.

Instead, he had changed to something slightly more casual, but still impeccably dressed. He wanted to pick up the best, after all. No, he didn't pay for it – he earned it. It had then been a short drive to one of his favorite bars. Not the one he had been to last time, he was too smart for that. Repeats were risky, after all. He stood at the bar with his drink, sipping as he scanned the room for any likely candidate.

He frowned slightly. One of them looked familiar. Had he come here too close to last time? He wasn't sure.

"See anything you like?" Anthea asked, her eyes alert. She shadowed him, dressed impeccably in clothes that both looked nice on her and were easy to work in. It was rare that he would be accosted in this sort of situation but he still preferred her to be on her guard. Mycroft shook his head slightly, and continued scanning the room. If there were no likely prospects, he would have to go somewhere else. It didn't bother him, in a way, to have someone like her privy to the sordid details of his life. It was just part of the job, and she did it without complaining. Which was good, because if she had complained, Mycroft would have fired her without hesitation. Well – he might have hesitated a little bit. Replacing her as a bodyguard would be very difficult.

Mycroft's frown increased when he caught sight of him.

Weaving his way through the crowd, going to the bar, was the Detective Inspector. The one Mycroft just seen earlier that day. Mycroft did not do repeats, did not do any sort of emotional attachment with the people he had sex with. Not that Lestrade was an emotional attachment – he just was associated with Sherlock, and that was too much baggage for Mycroft want to deal with.

He nodded to Anthea, who caught sight of the DI almost immediately.

"Want me to make it go away?" she asked, her voice low and unobtrusive.

Mycroft considered her words for a moment, considered what it would mean. He wasn't quite sure she was referring to killing him, or simply making him leave the bar. Either option was alluring, although the first meant that Sherlock would no longer have a handler. For that reason she should at least let him live for a little while longer.

"Nothing for now," he said, waving a hand subtly at his side in a dismissal. She nodded, fading back into the background. It did him no good if the men he approached assumed he had come with a woman. Mycroft considered the DI as he got his drink, settled into a spot at the bar not far away from him. Apparently he hadn’t noticed Mycroft, hadn't seen him.

Then their eyes met, and Mycroft knew that this Lestrade was smarter than he looked. He had seen Mycroft then. There was no surprise, no fear. Just curiosity.

Mycroft reviewed the earlier part of his day, his car trip here – they used unobtrusive cars, discreet people. But had Lestrade checked on him? Had Mycroft been followed? Or maybe it was just coincidence. Mycroft didn’t believe in coincidence.

Still, he wasn’t going to stay here, wasn't going to deal with with the DI or what he wanted.

He nodded to Anthea, then together they moved to leave the bar. And then he stopped. Lestrade was looking at him, licked his lips before he took another sip of his drink. It was deliberately seductive, deliberately sensual. And Mycroft was somewhat intrigued. He had ran into repeats before, former dalliances, but most had come up to him, tried to repeat the last performance. Lestrade did nothing of the sort. He just sat there, flirted, but said absolutely nothing at all. It was as if he had no interest in a repeat, in anything else.

Was he baiting Mycroft intentionally? Or was it not deliberate?

He studied him for a moment, wondering what to do. Lestrade's eyes were challenging, threatening almost. Daring. Definitely deliberate.

Mycroft Holmes had never been very good at backing down from a challenge. And Lestrade was challenging him to fuck him senseless. Well, two could play that game. He walked over to Lestrade, looked at him, looked at the drink. Their eyes met, their eyes held. Lestrade’s careless, Mycroft’s narrowed. Inwardly Mycroft was irritated - but intrigued.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Mycroft asked.

Lestrade looked at him, raised his drink in a salute.

"Go ahead."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two. :)
> 
> I really need to add a warning for self-destructive behavior...don't forget to double-check the tags if you have any triggers. Mycroft's in a bit of a dark spot.

Mycroft and Lestrade sat there at the bar, their drinks in hand. No casual conversation. Drinking was for getting inebriated. Not for talking. Neither spoke until their drinks were finished. Mycroft glanced at his glass, glanced at Lestrade. "Your place or mine?" he asked, focusing on the way Lestrade licked his lips, the way he could do filthy things with his tongue in public. Mycroft didn't do repeats, but maybe it was time for a change. Maybe he could make an exception.

"Hm," Lestrade said, as if seriously considering the question. "Mine." They had gone to Mycroft's before. It made sense, in a way. Made it feel less like a repeat if they weren’t going to the same place. Not that Mycroft cared, at the moment. Repeats could have their benefits, in theory – he knew how to make them squirm, how to make them beg. That could be almost as gratifying as the sex itself. It was the control that he wanted, the feeling that he was what mattered and nothing else.

"Grab your coat," Mycroft said. He put down his empty glass, and frowned when he saw that Lestrade didn't follow him immediately. He was still savoring his last few sips.

After a moment, Lestrade stood. He was still languid, unhurried. In a way, Mycroft realized what he was doing. He was drawing out the tension, the anticipation. It wasn't something Mycroft was used to, and he wasn't quite sure he liked it. He was the one in charge. He was the one who told them what to do. Lestrade was defying that.

They walked to Mycroft’s car in quiet, hands brushing occasionally. There was an energy between them, a tension. That was how Mycroft picked his partners. Their potential. And Lestrade had a lot of potential. Maybe not as a Sherlock handler – after a few good nights, Mycroft would have to have him deported. He wasn't worth a security risk. But for now, he could enjoy himself.

Anthea drove, and Mycroft could feel her eyes on them in the back. She would stay nearby, too. Protect Mycroft in case Lestrade turned out be not who he said he was. It was just part of her job.

Without a word, Mycroft followed Lestrade to his apartment. Maybe it hadn't been a good idea, letting him choose the place. Mycroft felt off kilter, uncertain. He had never gone to somebody else's apartment before. They had always been at his throwaway, the apartment he kept for sex and nothing else.

But then the door opened to Lestrade’s apartment, and they stood, tension hanging in the air between them. Lestrade looked at him, his eyes dark. Mycroft could see that he was hard, the thin slacks he wore not hiding much.

Mycroft pulled Lestrade inside by his tie and pressed him against the wall, kicking the door closed with his foot. He kissed Lestrade, nipping at his bottom lip, fighting for control. Lestrade’s mouth was hot against his, his body warm, and he fought back. But it was Mycroft who won, Mycroft who slid his hand down to cup Lestrade’s cock through his trousers. Lestrade gasped into the kiss, and Mycroft slid his hand back up.

He slid his knee between Lestrade’s legs, ground against the hardness there. He felt Lestrade moan into the kiss, felt his knees starting to buckle. He ground harder, to the point there was a pained hiss – but that was what he wanted. He wanted the border between pain and pleasure, wanted the border between not enough and too much.

Mycroft kissed him some more, and then pulled away, his hands working quickly to unbutton Lestrade’s shirt and rip it off. He, of course, would stay clothed for now. For now it was more important Lestrade get naked. Before they even made it to the bedroom Lestrade stood stark naked in his kitchen, his body melded against Mycroft as they continued to fight. Mycroft kissed and licked, bit and nibbled, making sure that he controlled everything that was going on.

Lestrade ground against him, against the hardness in Mycroft's pants. Mycroft was hard too, but it was easy, as able to feel Lestrade’s desperation as he was. There was no denying that Lestrade wanted him, that he wanted Lestrade. Wanted release. The absent part of Mycroft wondered the last time he got laid. Well, prior to four days ago.

"Clothes off," Lestrade said.

Mycroft pulled back, pausing deliberately. He kept his eyes cold, distant. He didn't take orders. Lestrade would do well to learn that. "No."

Lestrade looked at him, eyebrows raised. He stepped back. Mycroft looked him up and down, clinical and for his own pleasure. Head to toe sweep, look at all bits of him. He was well muscled, for being a middle-age cop. Not soft from desk work but not too hard either. His cock was as thick as Mycroft's, but a little bit longer. Interesting. Still, Mycroft preferred to be on top. Unless he didn’t.

Mycroft stepped forward, reached out and took Lestrade’s cock in his hand. "I'm going to fuck you, and you're going to like it,” he said, his voice deceptively soft. Lestrade let out a soft little moan. Mycroft stroked him, felt his hand get slick from pre-come. Lestrade’s hips tilted into the motion, and he leaned backwards against the wall for support. "Thought so." Mycroft smirked.

"Do I want to fuck you here?" Mycroft mused to himself. "Or I could take you on the rug." He looked at the rug in front of the couch. "Or, I could be nice, take you to the bed." He glanced around the couple doors the flat, wondering which would lead to the bedroom. Lestrade looked like he was going to pass out, like half of his blood flow had went straight to his cock.

"Hm." Mycroft seemed unconcerned with the decision, unconcerned with the fact that Lestrade's cock was leaking in his hands as he continued to stroke him slowly.

"Well if you're going to get down onto your knees, the bed's probably the most comfy option," Lestrade said. He seemed entirely unaffected by the way Mycroft was stroking him, although he watched Mycroft with hungry eyes.

Mycroft picked up Lestrade's tie, looped it around his neck, and pulled on it, pulling him close. "If you're not good, I won't fuck you." Mycroft tilted his head, cocked his eyebrows. His other hand was back on Lestrade's cock, torturously slow. "Get it?"

Lestrade licked his lips, but his gaze didn't leave Mycroft’s. He stared back without flinching. It was quite interesting, given what Lestrade's cock was doing underneath Mycroft's hand. "Do you have any lube?" Mycroft asked, prosaic. He, of course, had supplies. But he wasn't sure what Lestrade had in his own place.

"Night stand drawer." Lestrade's gaze was challenging. Daring Mycroft to leave him, to take the time away from him. Two could play that game.

"I could just fuck you without lube," Mycroft drawled. Lestrade tensed. While Mycroft would never do it, he couldn't tell if Lestrade was more or less aroused at the thought. Regardless, the way he shivered under Mycroft’s hand was a good thing. "But that's for another time," he said. He let go of the tie, let go of Lestrade's cock, and pushed him into the bedroom. Lestrade went, but the way he walked made it clear that he was going only because he wanted to.

It was irritating, having somebody respond like that. But Mycroft could deal with it. Mycroft would break him.

Mycroft took off his pants, and then his shirt. The rest, until he was naked. It wasn’t sexy, it was clinical. Otherwise his clothes would get messy, and given the unreliability of his dry cleaners, who knew if they would be ready before he needed to go out again. Lestrade stood, watched him. His eyes were hungry as they devoured Mycroft’s body.

"On all fours," Mycroft ordered, nodding towards the bed. He went to the nightstand, pulled out the lube and the condoms. He didn't want to risk catching anything. He was self-destructive, not stupid.

He rolled the condom on himself, and then poured lube on his hand. He slid a finger into Lestrade's arse, slowly starting to prep him. It wasn’t romantic, wasn’t intimate. It was just sex. That was what he preferred.

Lestrade kneeled there, his head hanging down, and his body pressing back onto Mycroft's hand. He wanted it, as much as his body did. Mycroft was achingly hard at that point. But he couldn't be impatient – unless he wanted to injure either or both of them. A trip to the hospital was the opposite of what he wanted.

One finger, then two, then three. Finally Lestrade was ready, made soft little noises as he pressed back against Mycroft's hand. "Just fuck me already," Lestrade snarled.

Mycroft smacked him in the rear, leaving a hand shape on Lestrade's butt. Lestrade hissed, but not in a bad way. Instead, he seemed to like it. Mycroft filed that away for later information. He made sure his condom was still on and then slid into Lestrade, not pausing. He enjoyed the tight heat, the firmness around him. The way Lestrade inhaled sharply as Mycroft took him.

Mycroft tilted his head back, focused on breathing. He had gotten used to fucking them, to taking them, but that first initial sink was always the best. He began to rock his hips, in and out, in and out. He gripped Lestrade by the hips, digging his fingerprints in. Lestrade didn't seem to mind. Instead he pushed back harder, meeting Mycroft’s thrusts.

Sweaty skin slapped against sweaty skin, so loud it echoed in the room. Mycroft wasn't a very vocal lover. He gritted his teeth, focused on thrusting faster. Lestrade, however. Lestrade was vocal. Lestrade probably upset his neighbors. There were moans, there were groans, there were hisses, there were sighs. He kept pressing back against Mycroft, meeting him thrust for thrust. Then one hand went underneath him, probably jacking himself off. Not really Mycroft's thing. He was there for himself, not for whomever he had taken home. A selfish lover, yes. But that was the point of having sex in the first place.

He fucked harder and harder, his eyes closing as his head tilted back and he was just lost in the sensation of what he was doing. Eventually, his climax caught up to him, and with a quiet groan, he came. His thrusts slowed as he finished, his breath coming in shuddering gasps. Lestrade went limp underneath him, but Mycroft could still hear the slickness of Lestrade's hand as he yanked himself off. It took a few more sections, but Lestrade moaned loudly as he came. Mycroft couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose.

Mycroft pulled out and then took off the condom, tying it and tossing it out before he cleaned himself up. He didn't do the post-coital thing, not really. Instead, he pulled on his clothes, dressed himself, did his hair as best he could. It was easier than he expected, given that Lestrade had not really touched him. The man before Lestrade had tried to manhandle Mycroft. It hadn’t been appreciated.

He met Lestrade's eyes once, studied him for a moment, and then he was out the door. He went downstairs, got in the car, and nodded to Anthea without saying a word.

-

Mycroft settled in at work, significantly more well rested. He had gone home, showered, and then headed straight to work. Nights like that helped calm down what went on in his head, made the world feel better. And that served him well as he worked over the next twelve hours. There were many little things that had to be taken care of, all over the world. Anthea worked at her desk by his, monitoring her side of the business. It kept them both busy. Mycroft's hours were that no banker would envy.

At the twelve hour mark, he nodded to Anthea. Food. She nodded, stood and left. He turned to the monitors, those that decorated part of the far wall. He had to keep an eye on many people, and CCTV was the easiest and most unobtrusive way to do so.

The first three screens displayed Sherlock. Two were him at his flat, one was of the entrance to 221B – that way Mycroft knew when he left. The fourth displayed somebody that Mycroft was relatively certain would meet with Sherlock at some point. An army doctor, who was headed to London – and to Sherlock’s particular hospital. Still, there was time before their paths would intersect. And as cynical as Mycroft was for himself, he did want Sherlock to be happy.

A fifth screen was there, one Mycroft glanced at less frequently. It was Lestrade settled in at work. He was focused hard on his work, talking to whomever came in. But when he moved around the department there was a limp to his step. Mycroft smirked. He had used him hard.

He kept an eye on all of this monitors, studying them each in turn. Lestrade’s was extraneous, merely an extension of Sherlock’s. But he couldn’t help looking at him, getting distracted by the way he moved. There was a grace to it, a stability. Mycroft watched the way he listened to his staff, to the young female sergeant who was now working under him. He seemed relatively well liked, relatively well respected. What was he doing picking up people like Mycroft at the bar?

People like Lestrade shouldn't go to a bar, to pick up somebody just for a night and not even know their name. Mycroft rarely knew names. He had not known Lestrade's until he had seen the file. Names didn't matter, not when all he wanted was to fuck somebody's brains out.

He studied Lestrade's image for a moment, considering. Then, ignoring what needed to be done, he pulled out the file he had, decided to give it a more thorough read. Maybe something in there would tell him more about why Lestrade did what he did.

Not that it mattered, he assured himself. It was curiosity, nothing more. He needed to find out what would happen in the unlikely event that Lestrade became attached and it interfered with Sherlock. Sherlock needed Lestrade a lot more than Mycroft needed sex.

Okay, maybe it was a close thing. But it was close enough that Mycroft could deport Lestrade and find someone else for the both of them.

He skimmed the file, curious. Married – to woman. So maybe not entirely gay. History of alcoholism – but he hadn't really been drinking. It didn’t make sense, not really. There was something missing, a puzzle piece that had been left out.

"Anthea," he said. Even though she was busy, she could hear him. Within a minute she was back, the food she had gone to fetch in her hands. They never ate much while they worked, but Mycroft had learned that about twelve hours was as long as he could go without a detrimental decrease to his work efforts.

She looked at him, expectant, as she put the food on his desk and then hers.

"Put the detective inspector under surveillance," he ordered.

She studied him, he could feel it. Wondered why, given that he seemed to have relatively little importance. "Sherlock is getting ready to meet him," Mycroft said. He nodded to the screen, where Sherlock was leaving 221B. Lestrade was leaving his office, pulling on his jacket. The likelihood was that they were both going to a crime scene. Although how Sherlock knew about it, Mycroft wasn't sure. "Has Sherlock's phone been used?" he asked her. She considered it for a moment, consulted her phone, then shook her head.

"Interesting." If Sherlock wasn't using his phone, then how did he know about the crimes?

Instead, Mycroft studied the CCTV, tracking both Lestrade and Sherlock’s paths using facial recognition programs as they headed towards the crime scene. He watched as Sherlock got there, as Lestrade rolled his eyes and bickered with him. There was a patience there, a gentleness. A reverence. Interesting that Lestrade would show such a thing for others, but not himself.

Eventually, Sherlock was allowed to look at the crime scene, allowed to rattle off deductions that Mycroft couldn't hear and only could partially lipread. Sherlock had a bad tendency – well, an acquired habit more like it - of hiding from the CCTV cameras. It was more than easy for him to leave his back towards them, or to obscure what he was going to say. It was aggravating for Mycroft.

"What are you hiding," Mycroft murmured, turning his attention back to Lestrade. There was something off about him, something familiar. Something Mycroft couldn't place. Still, he realized Anthea was watching him. He realized he had not touched his soup or salad, that the soup was growing cold. He made a face at it. "Heat this up?" he asked. Not in order, he didn't risk ordering her around too much. She could kick his ass, and she wasn't shy about it.

With a nod, she picked up the soup and took it back to heat it up. It wouldn't be perfect reheated, but it was better than it was cold. He allowed himself to study the monitors for another few minutes, and then turned them off. He had other more important things to think about.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg's POV for once. :) Switches back to Mycroft's next chapter.

Greg ran a hand through his hair as he looked at the crime scene. It was basically in shambles. Sherlock had came through, tromping around with no regards for crime scene protocol. And Greg had let him, because Sherlock had given them the information that would lead them to the killer. He didn't always like Sherlock, not when he came in and screwed up his crime scenes, but Sherlock did know what he was talking about. Greg did respect that.

"What are you on?" he asked Sherlock when he got close enough. Sherlock looked at him, disdainful, and Greg raised his eyebrows.

"Get off it, or you're not going to be allowed on my crime scenes," Greg informed him. He tried to sound as threatening as he could, but he could tell that Sherlock didn't believe him. In a way, Greg wasn't sure he believed himself either. Sherlock was invaluable, giving them more information than they had. Greg was a good cop, he knew that much. But Sherlock could see things that Greg didn't. See connections that most cops missed. Already two perpetrators had been arrested when they would have gone free, without Sherlock. As much as Greg resented the smart little ass hole, he couldn't deny that he was effective.

"Heroin," Sherlock said with a shrug.

Greg looked at him, and what he felt was - complicated. Worry? Sadness? Fear? "That stuff will kill you.”

"Yet it never killed you," Sherlock said, and there was an eerie quality to his words, a sureness that he knew what he was saying. Greg didn't flinch, didn't even bother reacting. There was no way Sherlock knew. Nobody knew. And besides, what Sherlock thought he knew, he was wrong anyways.

It been cocaine, not heroin.

Greg frowned at him, and then moved away from where Sherlock was standing. The victim's body had been taken to the medical examiner’s for an autopsy the next day. He would deal with it then, deal with the results that came. For now, he had to supervise the scene - and Sherlock. Once that was done he could research Sherlock’s lead before the berk took it in his mind to do it himself.

Then he wasn't sure what he would do after that. That lead was likely good for two to three days of solid work, all through the evening, all through the night. Once the perp was caught, there would be another one. And another one. Part of him didn't know when he would get to go back to the bar again. Find somebody else. Not that he was in a particular hurry after last night. That man had been a good shag. The man he still didn't know who was. He called him M, in his head. There had been a monogrammed tie pin. MH.

Martin? Marvin? Marcus? None of those names seemed right. Greg wasn't sure what it stood for, wasn't sure he wanted to know. Still, for some reason M had a strange interest in Sherlock. A stalker? Or something else? Greg wasn’t certain it was worth mentioning. If he would even see the strange man again.

"Sir?" Sally asked, coming up beside him. Greg looked at her, eyebrows raised expectantly. She was a good sort, a newbie with a stubborn streak. Still, she would do good work. And he only wanted the best on his squad. "We're done here," she said. "Do you want to go back to the station?"

With a sigh he shook his head, realizing exactly how late the evening was going to get. "We need to go to Berkshire. Look for people who have black labs."

She looked at him, and he could sense the faintest hint of disapproval. She didn't approve of him having an outside consultant. He didn’t care. He was going to do it, and she could disagree if she wanted to.

"Very well, sir," she said. She nodded to him, and she led the way out. Then back to the station.

-

It was three days later, and a significant amount of exhaustion later, before Greg made it home. Everyone on his team had worked hard for three days, getting information they needed to put the perp behind bars. There was still a while before the trial, of course. But still, things were going well. He could finally go home and get a proper night's sleep, not one taken at his desk. He hadn't seen Sherlock since the arrest, nor any sign of his stalker. He had gone back to the bar, once, on the way home, to see if M was there.

Pointless, really, since he didn't know how often M frequented the bar, how often he picked up men to sleep with. Greg figured he would check a couple more times, just to make sure. He poured himself a scotch before bed, sat at his table. Finished it before he got undressed – he preferred to sleep in the nude. It was more comfortable, freeing in a way.

His mind turned back to M, even as he crawled into his bed. He didn't know why the man was so fetching, why he stayed in his mind despite Greg's determination to make it otherwise. But he did.

When Greg closed his eyes, he could see M's face. Could see the way that his face shifted as he fucked Greg, as he came. Although Greg had been on his hands and knees, he could still pay attention. He was a copper after all.

He remembered the way that the man fucked him, the way that he didn't let himself lose control, not until the last moment. Until he groaned, hissed, and came into Greg. It was hot, Greg had to admit. He wouldn't mind having sex with M again.

Greg laid in bed for a few moments, considering. What would he do, if he ran into M again? Would he approach him? Would he say nothing? Would he watch as the other man picked up somebody else? No. He wouldn’t let that happen.

His hand slid down his body until he reached his cock. He was hard already, just thinking about M. He started stroking himself. The way M bit his lip, the way he bit Greg. The way he gripped Greg’s hips hard enough to leave bruises. The way he was still in control even as he fucked Greg harder and harder. Greg imagined what it would be like to have M underneath him, that control gone as Greg fucked him senseless. It probably would never happen, not given M’s control streak.

But Greg could imagine.

Could imagine the way M came undone, the way his mouth would look after Greg used his throat for his own pleasure. The way he would lay there, gasping, as Greg wrung every last bit of orgasm out of him.

Greg's hips pumped his cock further into his hand. He jerked himself off, faster and faster. He hissed, clenched his teeth. Imagined fucking M's mouth, that prim, proper mouth, until it was stretched all over, until M had tears at the corner of his eyes. Until he could barely breathe.

Greg came with a drawn out moan, his body wracked by the shivers of his orgasm.

He smiled faintly to himself, and then grabbed tissues to clean up. If he ever did see M again, he would have to talk to him. He was quite sure of it.

-

There was no rest for the weary, so Greg was at work early the next morning. It was a nice walk followed by a tube trip, so he left early in order to take his time. This was the first morning that he regretted that decision. There was something that made hair stand up on the back of his neck. At first, it was innocuous. Just a black car, like many others he saw in London on a regular basis. But this was a specific black car. One that showed up three times on his walk to work. It was probably nothing, but he had not gotten to be a DI by ignoring his instincts.

First was just before he headed down to his tube stop. Second was when he came up. And then a third just before he entered the Yard. Still, there was nothing concrete, nothing he could put his finger on, so to speak. Just a hinky feeling. And there was little that one could do with hinky feelings.

Work at least was comfortingly familiar. He worked on his cases, followed a couple leads. And then got called onto a new crime scene. This one was to be processed, handed off to the next available DI, but for now it was his. And then Sherlock appeared, barreling past the scene control officers. Greg ran a hand through his hair, rolled his eyes. "Sherlock," Greg said, exasperated. "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock just looked at him, his eyebrows raised in a ‘why are you an idiot’ look at that Greg was startlingly familiar with. "I'm here to solve your case," Sherlock drawled.

Greg sighed, scrubbed a hand through his hair. Of course, because he and his detectives were so incompetent.

That was Sherlock's favorite mantra, at least.

"How'd you find out about this?"

Sherlock smiled. and Greg couldn't help but roll his eyes. "I have my sources, Detective Inspector.”

Greg’s temper flared, but he bit it back. Instead he nodded to Donovan and the others. Sherlock could be a handful, but he had provided good leads last time. Greg still wasn't sure what to think of him, to make of the fact that he seemed to know more than anybody else. But when it came to getting what he needed to solve the cases, there was little he wouldn't do to give the families of the victims justice.

Still, it was interesting, watching Sherlock work. The absolute, all-consuming focus he displayed. Then Sherlock gave him a lead, and they were off. Sherlock like to lead, liked to be the one that got in the most trouble. Greg had lost count already of how many times he'd pulled Sherlock out of harm's way. And he had no doubt that he would do the same thing many times in the future. Sherlock seemed to be a magnet for trouble.

"Done?" Greg asked, panting. They had chased the suspect down several alleys before he'd finally been cornered and captured. Sherlock was smug, but there was a high flush on his cheeks that Greg wasn't entirely certain was adrenaline from the chase. He would have to watch that, have to be careful. He couldn't let a drug user on the team.

Still, Sherlock’s help had been invaluable.

Before going back to the office, he took a few minutes to stand by Sherlock, to talk to him. At the very least, he was going to hold him to his promise of not using drugs. If he was high, Greg would order him off the scene, prevent him from coming on the next one. But Sherlock seemed sober. At least for now anyway. He studied Sherlock for a moment, his mind going back to that first night, the night that he had met M for the first time. M had asked about Sherlock, which meant they likely had a connection of some sort. Would Sherlock tell him anything? It was worth having a go, wasn't it?

Greg cleared his throat. "You wouldn't happen to have a stalker," Greg asked, "would you?" 

Sherlock looked at him immediately. Greg was surprised at the intensity of expression. Sherlock rarely paid that much attention to anything that wasn’t a crime scene. "What does this stalker look like?" Sherlock asked, his intent gaze fixed on Greg.

Greg considered. He had to be careful what he said, because in most of the description he was familiar with, M was naked. That probably wasn't the best thing to give away. "Bit older than you, posh, wears suits." He considered for a few more moments.

"Threatening?" Sherlock asked. He sounded irritated, although whether that was with Greg or the stalker Greg wasn’t certain.

Greg nodded.

There was a scowl on Sherlock’s face, and he rolled his eyes. "Mycroft," he muttered.

“Mycroft?" Greg rolled the name on his tongue, considered it. Interesting. Maybe not the most shoutable name, but he would make do. "What you know about this Mycroft?"

Sherlock looked at him, narrowed his eyes. "Did he take you to that warehouse?"

Greg wasn't quite sure whether to be insulted that he wasn't the first - or relieved that Sherlock couldn't tell about the sex. He seemed to know everything else, but apparently he didn’t know that. "Yes," Greg said, deciding that was the simplest approach.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. So there definitely wasn't something new about this. "He offered the money?" Sherlock asked, scoffing. He was looking around, as if there was something hidden in the nearby alley.

"Yes," Greg said, his curiosity piqued. Sherlock was being far more open than he had anticipated.

"Did you take it?" Sherlock asked, his eyes flicking to Greg before he went back to surveying the alleyways.

"No," Greg said immediately.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We could have split the money."

“So he's not dangerous?" Greg asked tentatively.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He's the most dangerous man in Britain," Sherlock drawled, but there was something annoyed about his gaze, about the way he kept looking around. "And he's likely listening to this conversation. Aren't you?" he called.

A black car stopped idling just outside, and Greg's heart stilled. Had it been Mycroft in those cars?

"Who is Mycroft?" Greg asked, his heart beating too fast for his liking.

Sherlock made a disgusted noise. "My brother," he muttered.

Greg almost choked on his own tongue. Brother? He was sleeping with Sherlock's brother? Shit. That wasn’t what he had expected. Still, he couldn’t change what had happened. But it certainly did make him a little bit more wary.

Sherlock glared at the approaching black car. "He's probably in there," Sherlock said. “Unable to keep his nose out of everybody else's business.” Sherlock tensed, lifted his chin as the door of the black car opened and a pretty brunette got out.

Greg recognized her. She had been the one to pick Greg up the first time, and he had seen her at the bar since, lurking in the shadows, in the background. Was she his assistant? Somebody else he slept with? Mycroft had seemed pretty into Greg, not women, but Greg obviously didn't have enough data to be able to tell.

"I'm not going with you," Sherlock snarled.

The woman looked at him, her eyes cool. She looked unassuming, dressed in a dark skirt and blouse. But there was something razor-sharp to her that made Greg not want to mess with her. Maybe she was a bodyguard. Whatever she was, he doubted it was quite as domestic as she seemed. "I'm here for DI Lestrade," she said coolly, ignoring Sherlock.

Greg could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, feel the way he studied him. Oh yes, he was suspicious. Greg couldn't exactly blame him. "Try not to gossip," Sherlock sneered.

Greg looked at him, raised his eyebrows. "Now?" He asked.

She looked at him, her eyebrows raised. "Mr. Holmes does not like to be kept waiting.”

Apparently that did indeed mean now. Greg swallowed and then nodded. His work would have to wait, as much as he didn't want to leave it. What did Mycroft want? He likely knew Greg had a case, why was he pulling him away from it? "Where is he?"

"Just get in the car," Sherlock said, cutting the woman off before she could speak.

Greg frowned at him, and then sighed. Fine. Sally could handle passing the case off. It wasn't fair, but life often wasn't. Besides, they had done most of the work. The followup DI would just have to clean it up.

He followed the woman to the car, got inside. Half of him had expected Mycroft to be there, but he wasn't. Instead, it was just the two of them. "Where are we going?" he asked.

She looked at him, smiled. Said nothing.

Greg swallowed. "You won't tell me?"

She considered him for a moment, even though most of her attention was on the blackberry in her hand. "No," she said finally.

He took the hint, stayed quiet. But he couldn’t help tapping his fingers nervously on his thigh. What did Mycroft want?


End file.
